Crow's Hymn

From wires I pine for the storms to be rid
that my brothers and I may rest true.
We flee en masse harbors that would be delight
if we had the patience of you.

From fields that are fickle to streets that are full
we span out our search for repast.
We eat what we gather and we gather some more
these vainly sought treasures won’t last.

And yet we will linger by vanity’s pride,
our silken-shorn feathered-ness grave,
confiding our Maker has made us the same
as the Eagles flyin' over the brave.